Don't Mess With The Booth
by Aisho9
Summary: Caught in the middle of someone else's battle, Brennan is hurt. The perp is in hot water enough, but now he's got a pissed off Booth to deal with, too. BxB all the way and rated T for mild language/violence.


Disclaimer: As per usual, I own precisely nothing, etceteras, etceteras. There is mild language in this, but nothing exceptionally awful, it's your usual allowable-on-primetime-TV language. This is 100% a I-Adore-Booth fic, the guy has the loyalty of a Golden Retriever and the temper of a hungry alligator, and I love him for it. :) Enjoy!

--

He found her in the back, behind the curve of the bar. Her arms were curled protectively over her head, turned white with dust, and beneath the scattering of debris there was a moist soaking of blood. He ripped at the flecks of wood and glass, bloodying his own hands in the process, but it was his partner, that was his partner there.

When he finally reached her, finally rolled her onto her back to see once and for all what the damage was, his breath caught and there was an awful moment where he thought she might actually be dead. God in Heaven, but if someone had come round the bar just then, they would have seen the steel-plated Seeley Booth crying. Not a lot. Just a little, you know, manly sort of tears, which weren't hard at all to wipe away when he realized she was breathing, and that the pain of being moved had drawn her awake.

"Bones?" he murmured, and she groaned in response. (He'd heard that moan in his dreams, but certainly not under these, ah, circumstances.)

"I've been blown up," she told him seriously, eyes still closed.

A smile turned up his lips. "I can see that. Can you stand?"

"Dunno," was the reply, so he put his arms under her neck and under the curve of her knees, and hefted. A breathless whine escaped her throat, and he froze, but she shook her head a moment later to tell him to go on. "It was—" She drew in a breath. "Grenade. It was a grenade. Threw it in the front window."

"Grenade," Booth repeated. He cast a brief look along the floor, but he didn't see anything. He wasn't about to stop and make an expedition out of it, either, he was making for the ambulance post-haste. They'd barely cleared the bar's front when she snatched weakly at his jacket lapel, expression furious.

"Him, him, him!" she was saying, and when he saw one of the rubbernecking spectators high-tail it in the other direction, he laid her very gently on the sidewalk, kissed her forehead, and went off on the pursuit. He slammed into the explosion's eager audience, pushing through ranks of wide-eyed and perversely delighted peoples, until he drew his gun and started waving it, and then they cleared a path hastily enough. His new Italian leather shoes struck pavement as fast as he could manage, and perhaps a little faster. He had a head start, this suspect, but he wasn't Seeley Booth, and the woman he loved hadn't just pointed a finger in another man's direction. He might be fleeing the beast but the beast's heart was on fire and it wasn't going to be sated until it had some meat.

When it looked like Booth's prey might just be getting away, Booth slid to a stop, leveled his gun, and fired two shots. One—thigh. Two—shoulder. Down he spun and now it was Booth who had a head start. The sod tried crawling, but Italian leather shoes taught him to stay put, and the hot nose of Booth's sidearm reminded him why.

No ambulance for this fellow. Booth marched him back, limping and whimpering, in handcuffs. There was a blood trail in their wake. The crowd remembered Booth's gun—remembered hearing it, too—so they turned their trick on time and parted. Up ahead Booth could see that Bones had been put onto a gurney, and was being tended too. Good. She saw him and gave a little nod.

"Bandage him up," Booth growled at an EMT, "but keep those cuffs on. He's a runner."

He jumped inside Bones' ambulance just before its engine coughed awake. Her fingers twisted into the cuff of his shirt, just peeking beneath his jacket. "I'm glad you got him," she murmured.

" 'Course I got him," said Booth.

--

"Glad to see you're up and about, Dr. Brennan," Hodgins said, when she came into the lab two days later, one arm in a sling and a bandage stuck to her forehead, but otherwise mobile and alert.

"Do you have anything?" Bones asked.

"Not much." Hodgins smiled at Booth. "Heard you got off a couple shots."

Booth's dark eyes glared down at him as Bones' voice said, "It would be more accurate to say he shot him twice. That implies he may have missed—which he didn't."

"Good for you," said Hodgins, but with less gusto. He dropped his eyes back down to his microscope with the feeling you'd get after staring down a rampaging bull and surviving only because the bull disdained of dirtying his horns on you.

Cam was still working on the less fortunate bar patrons, so it was to Angela that they went next. She'd had better luck. The plate glass bar window was assembled on a table, put together like so many puzzle pieces, until the bar's logo—Lucky's, with a shamrock—and a spray-painted "Feel lucky now?" began to emerge.

"Hm," said Booth.

"Yeah," Angela agreed, standing over the display with a clipboard in her arms. "I think it's pretty safe to say Lucky pissed someone off, and bad. Is your guy talking?"

"He's lawyering down because Booth didn't warn that he was going to shoot before he did," Bones told her.

"Lawyering _up_, Bones," Booth corrected.

"Semantics."

"Well, maybe we can get some information some other way," Angela said, ignoring their exchange entirely. It might be said that she barely noticed it. "Do you think you could get a warrant to search the guy's apartment?"

"We have witnesses who saw him throw the grenade and a few passersby who saw him painting down the front. I'd say that's enough for a warrant."

"Well, if you can get me his computer," Angela said, "I might be able to get you solid evidence that he had a vendetta against Lucky's."

"How's that?"

"I found a website asking people to petition against Lucky's. Apparently they use a supplier who abuses animals, and refuses to change suppliers even after being notified. It's gotten them a lot of flack. If he signed that petition, I'll be able to match his IP address to the electronic signatures."

"Good stuff, Ange," Booth said, and actually smiled. Bones' phone went off and she took it out into the hall, giving Angela a chance to say, "You okay?"

Booth's expression was guarded. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Just asking," she replied, and Booth left in time to hear Bones farewelling to her book agent. He knew what Angela meant. He'd gone apeshit on the terrorist, not because he'd thrown a grenade, but because he'd thrown a grenade at Bones. Right now he was just pissed as hell that the guy might be able to wiggle free just because Booth shot him without warning, but he was mostly over the fact that someone had tried to kill his partner.

It wasn't like she'd been _targeted_.—But she'd been damn near killed and _no one_ got away with that.

--

Sweets cleared his throat uncomfortably.

Agent Booth was looking particularly thunderous today, and he kept looking at Dr. Brennan and then the windows and then Dr. Brennan and then the windows and all in all, Sweets thought it was a little manic. Certainly romantic and definitely in keeping with Agent Booth's, ahem, volatile temper, but please. They were several stories high. No one was going to grenade the windows unless they had a catapult, but really a rocket launcher was more likely, which would be admittedly cool, even if that meant they'd be smoking crisps.

Focus, Lance, he told himself, and cleared his throat again. Now Agent Booth was looking at him, which was worse, and Sweets wondered, not for the first time, if Agent Booth was going to hurt him. "What is it, Sweets?"Agent Booth demanded.

"Relax," Sweets said. "Please."

"I don't need to—"

"You _are_ pretty tense," Dr. Brennan told Agent Booth, and with what appeared to be a titan effort, Agent Booth sat back in his seat, rearranged his tie, and sighed.

"Good," said Sweets. "Now. Would you like to discuss what happened the other day?"

They both looked blank.

"The explosion," Sweets clarified.

In a snap Agent Booth was on his feet and pacing behind the sofa. Even Dr. Brennan looked a little startled. Sweets opened his mouth to speak and found Agent Booth's finger leveled at him like a gun, eyes fierce. "I should have aimed for his head!" he said, and left.

--

Once Angela had firmly established one Reginald Warsaw as not only a signee of the petition but also the creator of the website, with an added bonus of a whole lot of threatening emails from Reggie to Lucky's, Reggie no long had any wiggle room. His lawyer had fought for the technicality and lost. Booth's reward was an opportunity to question Reggie, and see if he couldn't extract an attempted murder charge too.

He put Bones in the viewing room. She didn't like it but it would have to do, because this wasn't going to be pretty.

--

Reggie sat handcuffed in his chair. Booth sat across from him. Neither one spoke. They were staring at each other, like two kids on a date, except Booth expression said _I want to eat your heart_ and Reggie's said _You scare the bajesus out of me._ It was a full ten minutes, almost down to the second, before Booth spoke.

"How many people were in the bar, Reggie?"

"Like I'm supposed to know?"

Booth didn't move. Neither did Reggie. Sweat was beginning to stand out on Reggie's brow, because he knew the look in Booth's eyes. He'd seen it more than once. Usually it was on the faces of men who knew how to use brass knuckles and weren't afraid to plug the toilet with your eyeballs.

"I asked you how many people were in the bar, Reginald."

"Twenty-four."

"How many people at the first table?"

"Six."

"How many women?"

"Four."

Reggie had figured it was about time to stop dancing. Booth, however, wasn't looking any less dangerous, which was worrying. But Booth kept his voice even and he still hadn't moved, not even a twitch. "Now the bar, Reginald. How many people at the bar?"

"Five men, three women."

"Describe the women for me."

There wasn't a blessed clue in Reggie's head how he remembered it all. Memory wasn't his strong suit. But it was all in his head, clear as day, like he was standing there all over again. Probably it was fear. Not fear then, but fear now. Everything was all sharp.

"An Asian-looking one, sorta pretty. Fat girl with tight skirt, blond. And a brunette at the end of the counter, real beautiful, but kinda aristocratic, you get me?"

Booth stood suddenly, making Reggie jump, but all he did was turn towards the wall and hook his hands behind his back. "Tell me more about the brunette."

"Dark shirt, slacks. Dunno why she's alone, figure girl like that has a date."

Silence.

"She was alone because she was waiting for me, Reginald," Booth said, and something cold and wet slipslided down Reggie's spine. He wanted to say _oh shit_ but his mouth wasn't working. He threw a grenade at a fed's girlfriend. Sweet Jesus in Heaven. He'd be lucky to leave this room alive.

Booth turned, arms still behind his back, and regarded Reggie quietly. "Do you want to know her name?"

Reggie shook his head.

"Dr. Temperance Brennan," Booth said anyway. "Forensic anthropologist for the FBI—and my partner."

Even worse. Even goddam worse. This wasn't only a personal vendetta, this was an insult to the whole FBI. Reggie felt as if he were being dropped off the top of Niagara Falls. Sticking it to Lucky's was one thing, but sticking it to the FBI was something else entirely. It was the difference between prodding a sleeping Chihuahua and a sleeping lion. Sure, the Chihuahua had claws and teeth and could possibly give you something to think about, but it wasn't going rip you limb from limb, either.

Booth paced calmly over to Reggie's side of the table and drew him up. He set him on his feet, patted Reggie's shoulder, and said with something akin to sweetness, "I think we're done here. You can turn off the camera, Luke."

The red light went off. But Reggie wasn't being led away. He was still in the room, and Booth was standing between him and the door.

"Oh shit," Reggie finally managed, before Booth fist collided with his jaw with roughly the force of a Mack truck. He tried his best to fight back, but his opponent was bigger and a whole lot faster. Reggie was feeling the pain in a big way before the door opened and a woman came in, pretty, brunette, aristocratic, and said, "You don't think the jury's going to wonder if he shows up covered in bruises?"

Booth didn't answer.

"What if his lawyer finds out?"

Reggie felt his face. It hurt like the dickens but he knew he'd be fresh-faced and rosy by the time his arraignment came along. This pissed off fed might actually get away with beating the crap out of him.

He wondered if Booth was going to argue, but when he looked up, the Kill Bill look was gone out of Booth's eyes, and he gave his partner a smile. They left him on the floor for someone else to deal with and left. Reggie had the briefest thought of starting a petition against police violence but then reflected that if he had a girlfriend, and someone had thrown a grenade at her, maybe he would do it too.

Probably not as well. He flexed his jaw and felt a blaze of pain. Christ, but if he didn't know better, he would have said fed-man had been wearing steel knuckles.

--

Not so steeled, really; Booth sat on his couch and looked at the ceiling while Bones wrapped ice packs around his hands, already turning black and blue. He'd hit Reggie-boy with more force than he'd meant to. He was glad Bones had stepped in. He had never intended to go as far as he did, but he knew if she hadn't opened the door he'd have gone farther still.

Damn temper.

"You'd think you'd be used to me getting hurt by now," Bones murmured. "It happens often enough."

"Shit, Bones."

She finished wrapping his hand and took the bowl of ice packs and bandages into the kitchen. Then, from the living room, he said, "I don't think it's possible for me not to care, Bones."

The bowl went into the sink and two beers came out of the fridge, and though she didn't answer, she was smiling, and Booth knew she was smiling. She sat down beside him and put her feet on the coffee table next to his and clinked her beer against his beer.

"CNN," she said.

"Family Guy."

She nudged his shoulder. "CNN."

He nudged back. "Family Guy."

"CNN."

"_Family Guy_."

"Who wrapped your hands?"

"Aw, shit, Bones."

She changed the channel to CNN. "Thought so."


End file.
